I Care
by crypticperson019
Summary: France was in war with Algeria, who was fighting for independence. The war was brutal and as unforgiving as any war is. But the aftermath of the battle might have been worse than the actual fighting as it seemed life out of the billet and battlefield was just another war. What is it like to come back from the war? Did the war really end? (Portrays the Friends of ABC).
1. I

**All rights remain.  
>This is during the Algerian War [of Independence] against France which is a famous decolonization war. This war had begun on November 1, 1954 and had ended on March 19, 1962. An interesting aspect of this war included the proliferating disuse of guerrilla warfare. The hit-and-run tactic was a popular choice during the war; unfortunately, the use of torture from both sides was widely practiced.<strong>

* * *

><p>Perhaps, nothing could have gotten any worse than at that moment. Jehan, stricken down, had fallen and had not stirred. Grantaire, who had stood up, was brought down with bullets. Enjolras, righting his gun, was shouting with truculence before he had crumpled. Combeferre was hurrying among the wounded and as the poor man reached out towards a fallen, he was taken down with a bullet to the heel. Courfeyrac had let out an unearthly scream as he was struck down.<p>

When the Algerians had finished their hit-and-run, they had melted back into the shadows, allowing the night to make them all but invisible. Combeferre was the first to stir. He had, with a mighty groan, managed to open his eyes and lift his head. As if roused by the pulchritudinous sound of his friend's voice, Grantaire and Courfeyrac had began to move. At lastly, Enjolras and Jehan had inclined their heads ever so slightly to acknowledge their arousal.

The dissonance of the night seemed to have temporarily ceased as the men began to awake. It was not the bullets that seemed to have been the most enervating to the wounded, but the aftermath of it all. But no man was willing permit their lives to divest from their grasp. They were going to fight. One by one, the stricken soldiers had taken the blade of their knives and had stripped away sleeves and loose fabric and tied them tightly around their bullet wounds. And one by one, they had started to rise.

"Enjolras, ho. Help me."

Courfeyrac had felt the bullet graze his head but the worst was his leg. And though he had tied a stained cloth around his ankle, blood continued to fall. Grantaire, who had staggered over to Courfeyrac and had ripped off the torn part of his shirt, that was formerly against his shoulder, had stooped down to tie it around the wound, as well.

Combeferre, who had a hole in his heel, was bolstered by Jehan, who had been taken by a bullet to the arm. Grantaire had struggled with the hole in his shoulder and Enjolras had suffered from a broken shoulder blade. But they were not the only ones who were hit that night; the chances of making it back to their billet [troop shelter] seemed even less so when their medical man had fallen short.

Enjolras had turned to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both leaning heavily against their friends.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"Can I walk?" Combeferre repeated.

"Can you make it to the billet?"

"I am sure I can."

Enjolras had pursed his lips, unsure of whether to believe those words or not. He had turned on his heel and stared out. Albeit, it was useless for the darkness had covered everything so well, it was like staring through a blindfold.

"Enjolras! Enjolras."

The man had turned at the sound of his name and raised his eyebrows at the one who spoke.

"We cannot leave these men here," Grantaire said ever so quietly and gestured to the rest of the wounded, "can you manage to buttress Courfeyrac if I were to remain behind and help these men?"

"I do not want you waiting alone," Enjolras said through his gritted teeth.

"I am capable of fending for these men and myself, Enjolras. Start heading back and I shall be there, too," Grantaire said with a ghost of a smile, "but you must keep go in silence. Hit the ground if you think there will be another ambush and call for reinforcement. And remember to stay there if any other injuries may come to you. Remember to economize the bullets. I am sure our supplies is a bit low. Remember that pressure to the wounds abate the pain and stem the flow."

"I am capable of remembering," Enjolras said and touched Grantaire's uninjured shoulder with his hand before seizing Courfeyrac under and helping him stumble forward. But Enjolras had felt his heart tear when he looked back to see Grantaire standing there, watching them depart, and waiting until he was no longer in sight to keep his eyes forward.

The deriding pain and terrible anxiety was building inside; they had to pause every number of steps to make sure they could hear properly. The night was as silent as its stars but the pressure of getting back was becoming proliferating difficult.

It seemed to have taken too much time to get back for Enjolras had to listen to Courfeyrac talk quietly to himself the entire time; although, Enjolras found his friend's voice comforting against the threat in the air.

Joly, who was another doctor of the military, had rushed over at the sight of his friends; he first placed Combeferre on the closest bed, then Courfeyrac was laid right next to him, then Jehan and Enjolras were propped up against the pillows of the next two unoccupied beds.

"I-I'm fine, Joly. There is no need to see to me," Enjolras said after wretched minutes of silence.

"Sit, Enjolras," Joly barked and pointed a finger at the man, "I may be your friend but I am your doctor and I demand you sit and stay. That is not a suggestion, that is an order."

Enjolras, who was growing frustrated but exhausted, had reluctantly sat on the bed and pursed his lips. His mind reeled with pain and Grantaire and prayed that he would return safely.

Grantaire was applying pressure to the wounds of the soldiers. He received feeble motions or words of gratitude, in which he replied with an uncharacteristically cacophonous grunt. He did not want to sound boorish but he was short with worry and his instinct to aid the wounded had overcome him.

It was painful to bear and his shoulder felt like it was trying to detach itself from the rest of his body (in which he could not argue that amputation of the bloodied shoulder sounded promising), but he merely wrapped it in a small and thinned cloth before dressing to the wounds of the others. But worst of all, his heart ached for the sight of his friends stumbling off without him might have been the hardest thing his mind was forced to cope with.

"Thank you soldier," one said that had effectively brought Grantaire from his thoughts.

"You are welcome," he replied, this time with no callous grunt.

"You should have left us," he said, wincing as Grantaire continued to tie a part of his sleeve around the man's shin.

"Why would I do that?" Grantaire asked as he continued to scrutinize the worst of the bullet wound. It was pulsing with blood that he just could not seem to stem.

"I would have," the one said and looked at Grantaire with a darkened gaze; it was broken when Grantaire's hand had slipped and exacerbated the injury. He did not stop attending to the leg but his blue gaze had sought out at the man.

"And what good what that have done?" Grantaire asked with a heated tone.

"I would have saved myself."

"Are you craven?"

"Some would say."

"Would you admit it, yourself?"

"Perhaps."

"You would have deserved such a title."

"Then I would have admitted it."

Grantaire could not believe he was having this conversation with this man. For a ephemeral moment, he wanted to abandon this man and flee himself; but he alleviated the dastardly idea when he realized he would be no better than the man.

"And how does that make you feel?" Grantaire inquired lightly.

"Poor."

"Like a fatuous man?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"Yes."

Grantaire had enough of the conversation and finally, with shaking fingers, securely fastened the cloth around the leg and had given him a pat on the knee to let him know that was all he could offer.

His heart pounded, but not from fear. His eyes were sunken and his breast hurt and his thoughts were quisling. They continued to trail back to his friends and how he yearned to be with them, then he would know for sure if his friends made it back.

Instead, he curled up beside one of the dead men on the forest floor and wrapped his arms around his middle in a gesture of self-comfort. He no longer wanted to see anymore blood or gore or death or life. He wanted to feel nothing and only sleep would allow that. Finally, he had decided that his body had given enough effort and he had given to closing his eyes; he deemed it impossible to find any rest but his body was giving up on him and so was his mind, his heart, and himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Short prologue of this story. Please, tell me what you think? Did you like it? Was it worth it? I would love to hear opinions. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.<strong>


	2. II

**All rights remain. This will include minor torture; during the Algerian War, torture was a popular choice both sides used against their captivated opponents. If one is sensitive to reading about someone who is taken to a cell with little to no food for a period of time, then do not read.**

* * *

><p>"I suffer! Our friends have not made it back and here we sit, resting and recovering, in Paris whilst the rest are tenuous, unable to fight," Bahorel cried, standing so swiftly, it was in a blurred movement.<p>

"We all suffer," Courfeyrac mollified and made to stand up, "but what can eight recovering men do? Do you expect us to jump back into battle? We would not last the night. We can pray and hope for their return. Does that not satiate you enough?"

"It hardly does," Bahorel argued pointedly, "as we sit here, on the bench in a park of Paris, there are soldiers still fighting. Think about it, Amis! Grantaire and Jehan have not come back with us. What do you think their situation is right now?'

Enjolras, Combeferre, Bousset, Feuilly, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Joly had vacated the billet and was returned after France had aborted [rescinded an aircraft attack] their most recent plan; in return, Algeria had taken its men and placed them around their billet and had seized it before France could turn her head.

Whilst the remaining had made it back to their homeland, there were, unfortunately, those who did not make it back. Jehan Prouvaire had not journeyed back with them to France. Grantaire, who never showed up the night he had separated himself from the others, was not sought out with the dead nor was he sought out with the wounded or living which meant he was their prisoner and he had been their prisoner for four months.

There was little hope and it offered them no comfort.

The aftermath of fighting and the proliferating guilt was beginning to take its toll upon these men. Entering the war at the age of nineteen, they had come back at the age of twenty-one. Their guilt of coming back from the war, alive and at such a young age, was unhealthy for others suffered much worse than they. The images of shooting down fathers, brothers, and sons were overwhelming. Sleepless nights came much too often.

But all returning soldiers of the land had these terrible visions, images, guilt, emotions, thoughts. It was something every soldier felt when they returned from the battlefield. Those marching drums echoed every time they were alone, left with nothing but their thoughts. They were just more soldiers from the land of France, who were stamped with a brand. They were forgotten on the battlefield, thousands of miles away.

They have seen their very men ambushed from the left and right; their salubrious bodies were riddled with the unforgiving bullets from the darkest of nights. They had payed with their blood but received nothing in return. It was as if the war was never going to end. And whilst the were dying in the fields, life would go on so casually for everyone else. No one would want to be on either side of the gun, whether they were the ones to pull the triggers or receive the blow.

**&.&.&.&**

Grantaire had taken great pleasure when he spit upon the Algerian cell; but his cell was hardly big enough for him to lie down in. He had received little to no food and he was becoming horribly inert. His body had begun to dismally fail him. And only did he feel something burn in his vision when Jehan had been shoved in his cell that night and he had felt himself come back to life, like a plant that had survived the drought and finally basked in rain.

The poet, who was no longer young but still little, had stopped short of gasping breaths. Grantaire took his friend in his arms and buried his face in his neck. He could catch a trace of scent from their home (although Grantaire was imaging it as the lack of food was playing with his mind), he cradled the man in his arms.

"Four months," Jehan whispered.

The man had lost his voice from the lack of using it. But when they managed to find the motivation to speak, their speech was terribly inaudible, slurred, from the absence of nutrition. Their bodies were both failing them.

"Four months," Grantaire echoed softly.

"And you are still alive."

"Alive."

"R?"

The nickname had brought true tears to his blue eyes as he looked at Jehan.

"Oui, mon petit poéte ami?"

"The others, I know, made it out alive," Jehan apprised and looked for any sort of emotion from his soldier. Grantaire, whose hair had turned to a mop of curls, had started tugging at it.

"So they are all alive?" Grantaire breathed.

"Indeed!" Jehan said, and though his breath was ragged, his eyes had lit up. "And I know, now, you are alive, as well. Surely you are enervated, as am I...I missed you. I'm never garrulous but I have, at last, found hope. I am so motivated, I could go write a poem."

That earned a chuckle from Jehan; it was bliss to Grantaire, it was the most beautiful sound in the world to him. It was energizing, it was motivating, it was captivating, it was there. And he began to feel something heavy stir. He had picked up his little body and started crawling around the tiny cell on all fours.

There, on his silver plate, was a slice of bread and a cup of water. He had seized them both and shoved them into Jehan's arms. The soldier's eyes had widened to where it was almost comical then he firmly shook his head, pushing it back into Grantaire's hands.

"I will not accept," Jehan stated, "I have eaten my slice of bread the day before yesterday. When was the last time you have eaten? It seems, by the looks of it, you have been neglecting yourself. I do not like that, my Grantaire."

"I had no reason to continue living," Grantaire murmured then brought the slice of bread to his lips with heavily lidded eyes that seemed to burn with new life, "but now I do and I shall eat it. And we shall regain our strength and we shall return home. We will do just that, mark my words. I vow, to myself and to you, that we will be reunited with our dear friends soon enough. I refuse, now, to give up, now that I have been apprised that you are all alive. How I used to say that life was simply an exhausting game that could not be paused, only forever ended."

"And how wrong you were! Life is a delicate thing, simply divine; it is certainly not the easiest thing but it certainly something worth fighting for, yes?" Jehan asked, lifting his eyebrow and smiling a truly radiant smile.

"Certainly."

"Then eat."

"I am."

Jehan smiled again which made Grantaire smile which made them laugh; it was the most beautiful sound in the world for no one in these cells ever laughed anymore. Many had simply forgotten that word. But not Grantaire nor Jehan. They were together and they were leaving, one way or another.

"Then rest," Jehan said after Grantaire had swallowed the last bit of bread, "we will connive later."

"Then drink," Grantaire said, motioning to the cup on the floor.

"Yes."

The two had curled up against each other, breathing in one another's familiar scent that they refused to be gone, and closed their eyes; the presence of each other was comforting enough to bring them to sleep. It had been such an exhausting day yet it was very uneventful. Grantaire had felt himself spiraling into a mental depression, which seemed much worse than physically for he did not want to end his life, it was all in his head. Everything was beginning to be all in his head, he was convinced of it. But he had found his anchor that would not fail him. He was content.

**&.&.&.&**

If his nights were not sleepless than the night would be filled with unpleasant memories, horrid memories. Combeferre, the one of equanimity, had woken with an unwanted jolt. If that did was not bad, to make matters worse, he had woken his friend, Enjolras; Enjolras was already sleep deprived as it were, but Combeferre was sure he did not want to be waken by a tenuous man who could not control his emotions.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras," Combeferre apologized and pursed his lips, "I-I was just...startled. Try to go back to sleep."

"I wasn't asleep," Enjolras said with a small smile; he seemed to know what had troubled Combeferre for he had moved from the door frame to the side of Combeferre's bed. His luminous golden curls were still pulchritudinous in spite of the state he was in. Then without another word, he moved right into Combeferre's bed, drawing the covers up to his breast and pulling his friend closer.

"What are you doing?" Combeferre asked but he did not object.

"Getting comfortable," Enjolras said then added after a short pause, "for once."

Combeferre hummed and Enjolras rumbled contently as the two friends just rested in the embrace. In veracity, it was the calmest Combeferre felt in ages; it seemed like the war never really ended, that he was really back home, but in Enjolras's arms, he felt like the world was becoming bearable again. He yawned hugely and closed his eyes, but hoping he would stay awake long enough to make sure Enjolras was asleep, but his treacherous eyes were growing too heavy for him.

_His friends, who were staring at him impassively, watched as he simply lay there, injured and inert. He had never felt more humiliated or betrayed or hurt than at that moment. It was a nightmare in itself but Combeferre called out again, throwing his emotions into his voice in hopes of earning any kind of recognition. But his friends stared at him, just stared._

_Breathing was becoming more arduous the longer his friends were staring at him. It was as if they were strangling him with their gazes, their scrutinizing eyes. He had only felt hope flare at the sight of Jehan and Grantaire but the two were just...staring at him, showing no alacrity that they were among their friends, again. It had hurt a great deal to watch his friends do nothing as he struggled._

"Wake up!"

Combeferre's eyes opened again as he stared at the ceiling. The warmth seemed have left him as he looked around the room of Enjolras. To his surprise, his friend was right there, laying right next to him, watching him. His eyes seemed a little more bright, it looked as if he had finally gotten some sleep, and through the dazzling sun's rays, he looked much more alive and alert. What sleep could do for someone!

"Did I wake you?" Combeferre asked in dismay then he hung his head. "I did! I am sorry. I will sleep in the living room tonight. I refuse to divest you of your sleep."

"Hush, 'Ferre," Enjolras said, careful to use Combeferre's nickname, "I am plenty rested. Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you something? I already took my shower; how about while you take yours, I will make you breakfast."

Combeferre pursed his lips but nodded as Enjolras rose to his feet; the golden haired man stopped with his hand outstretched towards the door's handle before he stopped and turned back around.

"What had preoccupied your dreams, mon ami?"

"It does not matter."

"But it does. Pray tell."

"I cannot."

"Or will not?"

"Does it matter?"

"I am afraid it does."

Enjolras was an intransigent man and refused to back down from anything; perhaps that was why he made such an excellent soldier. Perhaps that is why he was venerated by anyone and everyone he met. Perhaps that was why he was deemed to go far in life despite the war and its impact it had on him. Perhaps that was why he was going to become a successful man. Combeferre had to appease his jealousy; and though he and Joly were studying medicine together, he could not help but feel envious towards his friend and his equanimity.

"I dreamed of war, of fear, of life, and of death."

Those words had escaped from Combeferre's mouth before he could catch them. He had, unknowingly recited a part of Jehan's most recent poem (that had been written while sitting in the billet); angry and frustrated tears formed at his eyes as he sniffed.

"I dreamed of hope, of despair, of enemies, and of friends."

Enjolras had spoken this time; his blue eyes, which were usually so calculating and blazing, were still blazing but with a haunted and bitter look. His mouth was thinned and his hands fell into fists, his heart was not in his chest but in his eyes. Combeferre was transfixed.

"I refuse to believe they are lost to us," Enjolras said; perhaps it was the fire in his voice that had made Combeferre nod with sincerity or the passion behind his words but Enjolras had convinced him his friends were going to return to them sooner rather than later. It had been a painful six months since they had seen Jehan or Grantaire, it had brought tears to their eyes whenever their names would crop up in conversations. Fantine, a beautiful woman who worked at the ABC Cafe, had taken sympathy upon the broken men and had offered them a room upstairs all to themselves.

Marius, a man they had met right after they had returned to Paris, had become another man in their group. And while they rejoiced at this new addition, they still mourned for the two of the lost; but Enjolras, who admittedly refused to mourn, had insisted that they were, indeed, going to come back to them. He was sure that his friends would never dream of giving up on them so easily.

**&.&.&.&**

Jehan had been pacing the tiny cell for nearly an hour until Grantaire had reached out and tugged at his wrist.

"Sit little pacer," Grantaire said with a smile.

The two had found it much easier to smile now they were reunited. Either they were to escape together or they were to die together. Either way, they were going to be inseparable. They had vowed to each other that they would no longer be apart. They were going to be together. But those words had unlocked the unwanted tears but had also often brought smiles, more and more of them.

"When she comes today, we will be rescued. We will seize the opportunity to escape. As audacious as I desire to sound, I am afraid. I am afraid of what will come of her raid. I fear that we will not be able to escape without another fight; and I am in no condition of fitness for a fair fight. It is like comparing the moon and the stars, mon ami. The moon will always be brighter than those stars but those stars come in multitudes, they have enough to spare. But we mustn't think like that, I suppose."

"No more of your cynicism, R. We will be home by this night's end. We will be with our friends, again. And we will be strolling through Paris's parks by the morning's light. Do not mistake my words as fanaticism. We have power before we had weapons. Man had determination, desire, and will before they had weapons."

"I venerate you," Grantaire said and gave him another smile. If it was one thing the Algerians allowed them to do was cut their hair; Grantaire, who had his mind and heart set on seeing his beloved France, had kept himself well-trimmed. His hair was still curly, far from lush, but he kept it neatly cut. Jehan had taken care to his hair, as well. Sometimes he would even try to comb it with his fingers.

"She will come," Grantaire murmured and closed his eyes, leaning against the cell wall.

"She will come," Jehan echoed with a stronger voice, "she is coming."

With that, there was a roar of blood lust. Several men had readied their guns as they aimed it at the entrances. Jehan had felt as though he received an electric shock that brought his heart hammering against his breast, beating stronger than it had been in six months. The Algerians were shouting to one another in a tongue he did not recognize, perhaps he was that enervated but he strained his ears to listen in.

There was a thunderous shout from behind the barricaded doors. Grantaire, along with several other prisoners, started banging against the bars. The shouting prisoners grew so loud, it became one immense roar. The sound of metal against heavy objects was the most beautiful sound any of them ever heard. It meant that they were finding the hope to fight and when there was hope, there was courage, and energy followed courage closely at heel.

Jehan, suddenly finding the hunger abated, seized one of the disconnected bricks from underneath their bunk and started pounding away on the bars. Their jubilant cries of freedom were energizing these men; they were up and fighting once again. France had not fallen, yet. She had come for them and they were going to fight in return.

The Algerians were pointing guns at the prisoners but by then, the doors had burst open; the sound of bullets ricocheting against the brick walls, dancing playfully before exploding. Finally, one by one, the barred doors were blasted off their hinges. The prisoners had streamed out from their cells and jumped in front of the barrels of the guns, placing themselves firmly in the line of fire. The first few had gone down, their souls had taken flight before they had even hit the ground.

But the new raiders had taken their distraction and gunned down many more after that. Grantaire had seized Jehan's wrist, tightened his grip, and ran into the fray. Unable to bear the idea of losing sight of his precious friend, he had followed in suit. But for the smallest of moments, they were separated, fighting with bare hands against the Algerians.

The mass of bodies were beginning to get too confusing to fire at random. They had dropped their guns and started throwing fists and the butts of their guns into the closest targets they could reach. Grantaire had taken a blow to the jaw and had reeled back in a dazed moment. Jehan had taken the butt of a gun to the cheek and felt something break, but his eyes were ablaze with the life of freedom.

The fighting had seized when the Algerians had fallen to their feet by accident. By then, the remaining had been gunned down. While there were French and Algerians who lay dead, the prisoners and raiders had a successful break-in.

Jehan had been searching for Grantaire from the moment the others were finished; when he saw Grantaire stumble to him, hardly injured except the bruise upon his jaw he sported, he looked uninjured. Jehan let out a hoarse cry of delight, victory, and relief as he engulfed himself into Grantaire in the warmest and tightest embrace. These prisoners were now free.

"How hurt are you?" Grantaire asked, pulling back and examining Jehan.

"Barely!" he said happily and beamed. "I am unharmed."

"I pray you're right," Grantaire breathed then enfolded him in another swift embrace.

"Let's not waste our time here," Jehan said breathlessly after a pause, "I told you all this would be done by the night's end and we will be reunited with our friends by morning's light."

"My poet, you are right!" Grantaire cried.

"Of course I am," Jehan joked with the little arrogance he could muster.

Hunger hardly seemed like an enemy, now that they had freedom back on their side along with hope, nothing seemed to penetrate them. They seemed and felt invincible. When France had retreated back into the night, they assisted the weak, dressing their wounds, and sending food for them immediately.

"Soup for tonight's meal will settle."

When a soldier had come over to inspect Grantaire and Jehan, he had unexpectedly burst into tears; Grantaire spent a few minutes trying to mollify the poor man before having him settle himself for the search of food. Jehan and Grantaire merely sat in each other's arms in a platonic gesture of comfort and support. They had suffered months together and they had finally made it out together.

When the first mouthful of soup had entered Jehan's lips, his stomach flipped several times with the warmth. He was not used to this kind of food; he was barely used to food and after his third spoonful, he had expelled the rest of it back up. Tears of fury and embarrassment had risen during the action, he hastily brushed them away, about to apologize until his stomach heaved again.

The pain and humiliation had burned deep within. But Grantaire only offered a warm and comforting hand; and that seemed to have offered Jehan so much more than food and he set down his bowl and pushed himself into Grantaire, enveloping himself in his friend's arms.

**&.&.&.&**

Courfeyrac was rubbing his shoulder absentmindedly, thinking while he was reading. The rest of the Amis were going to attend college at the end of the summer and he had gotten his hands on every law book he could; he often was in the company with Marius, who was also going to attend college for law. Enjolras, who was going aiming to become a lawyer, had often accompanied them to their frequent trips to bookstores.

But now they were all in their own flats, sipping tea, and resting on the couch with a book in their hands, and a blanket draped over their legs and shoulders. At least, that was what Courfeyrac was doing. His mind had been scattered in so many other places, he was finding it difficult to do anything properly, he finally was able to focus on his favorite novel. He yearned to live those quiet days, away from the muffled blood lust shouts, and the battle cries of guns and canons, of bombs, and screams of agony and screams of death.

But he really hated living alone. The beds that belonged to Grantaire and Jehan had remained untouched but every time Courfeyrac walked past it, tears would start to well in his eyes and he would quickly hurry out of the room, wiping furiously at his eyes. Many times, more than he could count, his friends would stop by for a visit, staying for hours upon to offer him some sort of comforting company. He appreciated the gesture and would always turn down whatever he was doing to spend time with them.

However, his peace was short lived when someone was knocking softly on the door. Yawning hugely, he rumpled his curly hair and tramped to the door, disentangling himself from his warm and cozy cocoon of blankets and setting his book and tea on the small table.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he shouted and quickened his pace.

He swung open the door, looking very uncoordinated, but he did not care. His day clothes were mussed from lying in them all day. So, without worrying who he was talking to, he was already apologizing for his unwanted appearance. He looked down and at himself as he started his monologue.

"I'm sorry if I look bedraggled to you. I promise that I would not look like this on a normal day. I have been through one hell of a life and I am only twenty-one so before you start your flow of castigation, you go fight in the war."

But before he could utter another sentence, two bodies pressed against him, engulfing him in a crushing hug; when they pulled back, Courfeyrac took a look. These two were ill-kept with bones that showed painfully through their paled skin, their knees were staggering and their feet were unsteady.

But never had he made a sound like that; it came from past his chest and right from his heart. It ripped through him like a bullet as he nearly fainted. No words came but Courfeyrac, veraciously, had temporarily lost the ability to speak for his chest constricted, not allowing him to. It was true, it was all true. Their hope was not lost and nor was it for nothing. His friends have come home.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading, it means so much. I did not do this chapter justice but do tell me what you think.<strong>


	3. III

**All rights remain.**

* * *

><p>If Grantaire had not moved inward to embrace Courfeyrac again, the man would have shouted at the top of his lungs in mingled delight, relief, happiness, grief, and sorrow. It was an awkward combination of emotions but it was enough to drive the man to the heights.<p>

But the swift movement of Grantaire, he was caught in arms in which he allowed for a moment of blissful silence. Courfeyrac clung desperately to the black trench coat that hung loosely on Grantaire's thinned frame. Jehan had slipped past the two and entered the flat, looking around.

"Everything is the same," he murmured, "everything is the same."

Courfeyrac seemed to have regained control of his emotions as he sniffed loudly, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeves, and detaching himself from Grantaire's arms. Once Grantaire made sure Courfeyrac was steady on his feet, the two followed Jehan into their flat.

Grantaire left his friend's side to explore; Jehan was right, everything was still the same, nothing had changed. He moved from the kitchen, to the living room, then finally to their room. Their beds were messily made with books and notebooks and pencils scattered about.

"He's right," Grantaire observed in an attempted strong voice, "nothing has changed since the day we all left this beloved abode."

"I realize, now, that I should have cleaned up. I just thought I held no right to mettle with your things. After all, they are not mine; but that is just a fatuous excuse, I see that now. I'm sorry, I can clean it up for you right now while you go and rest."

Grantaire had held up his hand to cut off the next sentence. He shook his head with a smile playing at his colorless lips.

"It's perfect. It's just so hard to take in, I cannot fathom what you are going through. I know it is overwhelming to have your two friends return after not seeing them in months upon. I..I should have offered more of a warning but I rescinded that idea, hoping it would brighten your evening if we came as a surprise. I suppose it may have come out to be more of a shock than a surprise."

Before any could utter another word, there was an unpleasant thud that echoed off the walls of their flat. Grantaire, wide eyed, and Courfeyrac, pale faced, ran towards the sound.

Jehan had collapsed, his malnourished body looked more defined as he simply lay there, fallen upon his side with his arm outwards, his eyes closed, and his face impassive.

"Go and sit down," Courfeyrac said suddenly, turning to face Grantaire, "I want you sitting and resting on the other couch; I will see to you next after I have Jehan on the other couch."

"I'm fine," Grantaire protested with intransigence, "I can help you. I'll fetch the blankets if you desire."

"I desire you to sit," Courfeyrac barked impatiently and waved Grantaire off, "I do not want you to collapse. If both of you go down—I don't trust myself to take care of you. So, please, just sit down and stay there. We do not want any more of this."

For once, Courfeyrac sounded sincere enough that Grantaire had obeyed without another word and sat down, tapping his knee nervously as he did. Jehan was set on the couch beside him and Grantaire could not help but stare and notice how the bones showed painfully through his friend. The last thing they had to eat was the soup—and that had been the day before yesterday. His stomach was asking for food but now it only roiled with nerves.

Courfeyrac came over with a bowl of yogurt, a large glass of water, and some Advil. He sat down on the chair beside the couch and looked over at Grantaire, who had averted his eyes downward. It was just another hauntingly familiar position Jehan was in during their time as prisoners. The memories have brought deriding tears to his eyes.

"It's okay—there is no castigation," Courfeyrac mollified as he watched his friend hurriedly brush at his eyes. He set down the Advil and leaped to his feet—he had strode over to Grantaire had offered the best comfort he could give.

Grantaire clutched Courfeyrac's shoulder as his muffled sobs grew louder. It was a horrible sound to him, it was a quisling sound that he had not heard from himself in ages.

They were soldiers, they were too busy to complain while with their sweat they took the enemies and with their blood they took the bullets. While they were dying in the fields, life, itself, was helping their defeat.

"Would it help to tell?" Courfeyrac asked soothingly.

"Jehan and I will find the right time," Grantaire whispered back and attempted to control his crying, in which he did eventually. By then, Jehan seemed to have woken—although it was not like he was fully aware of his surroundings for he continued to mutter under his breath as if the man was having a conversation with himself.

Courfeyrac pursed his lips and presented himself with the glass of water and medication. Jehan had broken out of his dazed state to graciously accept the medicine.

He rasped out a "thank you" but he had immense difficulty swallowing the small pill. He kept shaking his head after he downed some water and would look frustrated with himself.

Grantaire felt sympathetic towards his friend and let out a flow of encouraging words to help Jehan; and though they were soldiers, they began to struggle with the simplest of tasks, like swallowing pills, or keeping food from coming back up. When they finally got the pill to work with spoonfuls of yogurt, Jehan had collapsed back on the couch with an almighty groan.

Courfeyrac had rushed to the kitchen and brought out more food for Grantaire and Jehan; he ruled out any acidic food and kept close to milk. Grantaire muttered his thanks when Courfeyrac gave him a glass of milk and crackers.

He was unsure of how his stomach would cope with food, now that he was eating larger amounts of it; he was confused when he was still hungry after eating a meal, he was confused when Courfeyrac would ask him if he wanted more. What he was not confused about was when his stomach would expel whatever was in it and this occurred frequently.

By the afternoon, both Jehan and Grantaire had fallen asleep on the couches. Courfeyrac migrated to their bedroom and pulled out his law books. Tonight was another meeting but he was sure he was not going to attend.

He was overwhelmed with emotions and deemed himself unable to go out in public. He, who often displayed alacrity on a high level, was now slumped over the desk, his head was in his arms. He, too, had fallen asleep upon troubled thoughts.

Grantaire had awoken with an unpleasant jolt and he instinctively looked over at the clock. He felt like he had just eaten lunch, but it was closer to dinner's time. Then with another jolt, he clutched his stomach and attempted to rush towards the bathroom, however, he did not make it.

His knees buckled as he heaved up the contents in his stomach. He watched with tear stained eyes as he positioned himself on all fours, looking, for all the world, like a wounded and enervated animal.

Courfeyrac had come rushing out of the bedroom and fell to Grantaire, whispering mollifying words in his ear as he brought Grantaire to his feet. The two resumed their spots on the couch, Courfeyrac was sitting and holding Grantaire as the former soldier let out a string of swearwords of self-loathe. But Courfeyrac would not stand for it.

Jehan had woke from his slumber and looked at them with a troubled expression. He quickly unwrapped himself from his mound of blankets and hurried to Grantaire's side, throwing two or three blankets over the man's shaking shoulders and ran a hand through the mussed curls.

"I'm going to run over to the ABC Cafe and tell Enjolras I cannot make it to the meeting tonight," Courfeyrac said briskly, "will you be okay?"

But Grantaire actually leaped to his feet. "I want to go to the meeting. I-I want to see A-Apollo again. I want to see everyone again. I am not fatuous, I am veracious. Please, Courf. We must go at once."

He turned to Jehan.

"Will you be joining us? If not, I will send your warmest welcome to them."

But Jehan shook his head and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair with an expression of proliferating alacrity (an expression Courfeyrac often wore). "I desire to see them, too. I have been deprived of their company for far too long. A day is enough time for me to recover. I am well, again. You have cured what ails me but now I must see my friends."

Courfeyrac looked like he was outnumbered so he shrugged his shoulders, making sure he still had plenty of water bottles for his friends in his messenger bag that he slung over his shoulder.

He walked beside Grantaire and Jehan, keeping his eye on them and stealing sideways glances every so often in fear of watching one of them collapse.

"I am a solider," Grantaire said when he caught Courfeyrac looking at him, "I have fought my time n the war and had bled upon the battlefield. I have survived the wounds from those dastardly bullets and I have lived to see another day, day after day, during the war. I have survived months with little food and hardly any rest. I will not collapse from a stroll in the park."

And suddenly Grantaire looked up at the darkening sky with a little smile upon his dulled features. "By tonight's fold we are walking through Paris; Jehan, I am afraid you said 'by morning's light'."

"I was close—it was the same day," Jehan protested lightly and flashed his friend a genuine smile in which Grantaire returned with a playful look that glittered in his pale eyes.

The walk to the ABC Cafe was farther than Grantaire had bargained for as his legs started to ache. But he mentally flouted himself in more self-loathe. He walked less than half a mile, less than one fourth of a mile, and he was already starting to ache.

He hung his head in shame, drowning in self hatred. Grantaire barely had enough time to stop as Courfeyrac spontaneously stopped in front of his path.

"No more of that," Courfeyrac said, tilting Grantaire's head back and brushed away the man's tears.

Grantaire flashed him a watery smile and sniffed, brushing his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Through the tears, his vision started growing much too vivid but he pushed it away as he resumed their walk.

His heart was racing and his feet were unsteady, unpromising, quisling even. But his breath died somewhere from within his chest as he stopped in front of the entrance.

He had often lay there, drunk and nearly unbearable, until he learned that Enjolras, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Combeferre all volunteered as soldiers; the night before the entire group departed together, Grantaire had drunk himself to oblivion.

He could not bear to leave Enjolras alone and he could not live with himself if his friends were all dead and he was alive. He would not permit it; so he volunteered himself as well and left with his friends.

And the last time he saw his friend, Enjolras was hobbling away with Combeferre and Courfeyrac after being ambushed (guerrilla warfare was unpleasant). His heart was beginning to quicken its pace as his head started to swirl and it hurt a great deal.

He sniffed and looked at Jehan, who looked a little more calm, but still nervous all the same. His blue eyes were staring straight ahead and his mouth was thinned.

"Do you still want to go?" Courfeyrac asked softly.

"Of course," said he.

Then Courfeyrac led them through the lower level of the cafe; it was still the same with bustling people, chattering about whatever came to their minds, conversations were scattered and all over the place.

It was when they reached the stairs that Grantaire felt his legs failing him and he was becoming very dizzy. But he merely gripped the wooden railing and forced his feet to move up the stairs.

He could hear the voices of his friends; he was so dizzy, he was beginning to see a red outline of everything. Courfeyrac went in first while Jehan and Grantaire leaned against the railing for a moment, out of sight.

Grantaire peeked out from his hands when he heard a particular voice, a stronger voice than all of them put together, shout over the small chatter.

"Courfeyrac! I was afraid you would not come! Are you well? Monsieur, you do not look it."

"I am well."

"I am glad to hear."

"I have—have something for you."

"Pray tell."

Perhaps that was his cue, but Grantaire pushed himself from the railing and hauled himself into view. It felt more like he was walking to the guillotine than upstairs of a cafe. His head was beginning to hurt physically.

The silence had greeted them like an old friend as Grantaire and Jehan had walked to the center of the Cafe. It may have been a shock and if they were not silent because of their presence, perhaps it was their state.

They were ragged, exhausted, and looked like people who have been starved over the months of this year (which they have been).

Bahorel was the first to approach them; he had taken a strong liking to Jehan especially. The poet's soft-spoken nature simply drew Bahorel to Jehan and Jehan idolized Bahorel.

But now, Jehan had been staring at him evenly until he could no longer hold the blazing expression, and dropped it to the floor. Grantaire moved over and held his hand, interlacing their fingers in a gesture of comfort and support.

"You are alive."

"You are alive, as well," Jehan whispered.

"I thought you had perished."

"I thought I did, too."

Bahorel closed his eyes tightly and exhaled loudly and shakily. His appearance allowed him to look anything but enervated or craven, but at this moment, he could not stop his tears from cascading from his eyes. Grantaire released Jehan's hand and nudged him forward with an encouraging nod.

Jehan blinked once then threw himself at Bahorel, taking the man by surprise (and everyone else in the room) and throwing his arms around Bahorel's neck. Bahorel had returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm as he no longer tried to cover his raspy and ragged sobs.

And before Grantaire could say anything, people from every side streamed forward in a flurry and grabbed him, throwing him hither and thither. It was all so overwhelming Grantaire was about to try to slip away, but his friends were taking slight steps backs. They could tell he was becoming overly stressed from the light in his eyes.

"I have, for all of you, a promising tale," Grantaire said and looked at Jehan (who had detached himself from Bahorel and nodded grimly), "please sit and make this easier on my voice."

Jehan took his place beside Grantaire and grasped Grantaire's cold hand with his warm one and interlocked their fingers. Retelling their story was as efficient as reliving it all. They sat on the table top and over looked the crowd of people. Grantaire started:

"When Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, and Enjolras had left for the billet and I remained behind, I was speaking to a rather man who was rather craven at first. When I tended to his wound, he told me that he would have ditched to save himself, but in the end, he died a hero's death, he was a worthy man. I was brought down by two poorly aimed bullets that have caught me before my shoulder. I think they were trying to hit my breast but they had missed. I lay there and they seized me, instead. I was much too inert to fight back. For a month, I stayed a cell in the heart of their city and was forced into city labor. This was no form of torture but when my body began to fail, they had divested me from my post and threw me into a smaller cell and locked me in there. By then, they thought me to be dead and believe me, I wanted to be. At first, they tried working me to death; but they grew impatient and from then, they never removed me from my cell."

Grantaire stopped and Jehan began. He said:

"When our billet was overtaken, I had lost sight of my friends. They had purposely broke our groups into individuals so they could take us, one by one, with them. They had treated me the same way as Grantaire had said; I worked in their city for a temporary period of time until I had started to slow down. I was no longer salubrious and that is when they had removed me from my post to another cell. They starved us. We survived on bread and water once every two days. It was a pitiful amount; they derided us. They left us to rot away in those cells. But I never felt anger towards the Algerians. They were defending their country like we were defending ours. One cannot blame them. They are merely doing their job as we have tortured the Algerians for it was our jobs, as well."

"France had come to our aid; she never failed us and we escaped. It had taken us a few days to recover enough from the famine but the former prisoners of France were freed and we came home. I suppose you can all guess the rest," Grantaire said and flicked his eyebrows.

Through their story, the entire room remained completely silent. It was unnerving to hear the lack of whispering voices or occasional murmurs. Grantaire had stared at one person the entire time he spoke, which was Feuilly and he was sitting directly in front of him. But his eyes sought out for another. Grantaire longed to see that face once again.

But his eyes dulled when they caught sight of one another man in the cafe. Enjolras had not stirred from his place so Grantaire strode over to him, instead. He stopped directly in front of his Greek god and ran his tongue over his lips, willing for him to say something.

"Bonjour, Apollo."

Enjolras raised his eyes to look at Grantaire.

"H-how can you come in here...so casually and—" his voice broke off and he looked back down, his eyes were closed lightly as if he was trying to regain his composure.

"I fail to understand," Grantaire said softly.

"I-I have been so worried! I have been miserable these past months without you! I cannot fathom how _you_ must feel if _I_ feel like this!"

Enjolras's outburst had not surprised Grantaire, only hurt him in such a mingled and confused way. Enjolras cared about him enough to worry himself into misery. He felt touched and worthy.

He stared at his Fine Statue; he seemed have lost major weight and his face was gaunt and sunken despite the remaining fire in his pulchritudinous blue eyes. But he blinked and stepped back when he heard a strangled sob from Enjolras that sounded much worse than anyone else's. He stumbled back when Enjolras pushed him out of the way as he hastily fled the cafe.

"En—Enjolras!" Grantaire cried and tried going after him but a gentle hand had held him at bay, but it did not hold back his tears.

"Give him some time," Combeferre's soothing voice said; Grantaire had given up and turned to face the man. Combeferre looked like he was struggling, too. Like everyone else, he looked like he suffered from weight loss and sleep deprivation.

"I miss him," Grantaire said before he could stop himself.

"He misses you," Combeferre replied and motioned for Grantaire to sit beside him.

The two had taken chairs across from one another; Grantaire felt the familiar urge for a drink but he wanted to be sober to hear what Combeferre was going to say.

"He has not been himself lately; sure he still starts riots, rallies, and protests, but when he is alone—he has just been sitting in pure misery. He would not eat and it was hard enough to get him to do so without all this happening to him then you can imagine how difficult it was to get him eating with all this. He's been really out of it, R."

Grantaire found it too hard to listen to; he wished that eventful day of volunteering did not occur. He wished, at least, that he did not separate himself from the others. If only all of this was merely a dream-filled night of one long slumber.

"And 'Ferre?" Grantaire asked before he stood up. "I missed you so much it hurt."

Combeferre was the first to stride around the table and catch him in an embrace. "He's back at our flat if you want to talk to him. I will keep Marius here so you two can talk alone. And I missed you so much, too, R. You cannot imagine the pain."

Grantaire rumbled deep in his throat as he pressed his face in the man's shoulder. He pulled away, explained his situation to Courfeyrac and Jehan, insisting that he was well enough to travel to Enjolras's flat to see him. Courfeyrac obliged reluctantly but he, in the end, waved goodbye.

**&.&.&.&**

"Jehan?"

"Courfeyrac?"

"I suffer when you suffer."

"I am not suffering."

Courfeyrac pursed his lips when Jehan had stated that. His friend looked far from content but he knew not to push the poet into saying anything if he did not wish to.

"You were," Courfeyrac said.

"We all were," Jehan pointed out lightly with an attempted smile.

"We all are."

"Only if you allow it," Jehan replied and bit his lip.

"No one wants to suffer," Courfeyrac said and shifted closer to Jehan, "I have missed you and not a day went by that I did not. Your absence thoroughly wounded me."

Jehan hummed and pressed closer to Courfeyrac in a platonic gesture of comfort and Courfeyrac was mollified; his friend was there, he was alive and that was all that mattered. He would no longer suffer alone.

**&.&.&.&**

It was true. Grantaire had found new profound strength flow through his legs at the thought of Enjolras. He was going to talk to the man he yearned for the most. He was no longer hungry nor tired nor exhausted, he was enthusiastic about something.

The walk to the flat took no longer than ten minutes that went by flawlessly. Although his body was still achy on the stairs, he just ran up the last two flights. His heart was beating quickly but for all the right reasons. When he stopped in front of a particular door he knocked hard with his toe with his hands shoved in his trench coat.

There was a short pause of nothing but the door opened slowly. Grantaire caught sight of Enjolras and threw himself into the man's arms, forgetting about the words he thought he was going to say when he saw him. He rejoiced as the gesture was returned but he forced himself to pull back and scrutinize his dearest friend.

His eyes were dulled and tired but they brightened at the sight of him. His clothes hung loosely around his frame for he was ill-kept and rarely tended to himself. But like always, there were numerous papers and speeches scattered about the granite counter.

"Why did you run off like that?" Grantaire asked, running his tongue over his lips. "And please, no more tears."

He took his finger and gently brushed the falling tears from Enjolras's eyes. The golden haired man simply closed his eyes lightly, letting more tears fall from his alluring blue eyes.

"T-this is all going too fast," Enjolras murmured, "I cannot keep up with it; I am simply too lethargic for this wild race. But please, come in and sit down. I don't want you collapsing or anything."

T'was the old spark of Enjolras that had Grantaire smiling. But he obeyed and settled himself on the couch. Enjolras sat beside him and the two tucked their legs in and turned to face each other.

"There used to be so much I wanted to say but now I cannot think of a single thing to say," Enjolras said and grabbed himself a blanket and passed one to Grantaire, who accepted it graciously.

"Me too," he said and pursed his lips, "you look thinner, mon ami. Have you been eating properly? Why must you neglect yourself and occlude your self needs?"

"If you deem me thin, then you have not looked at yourself, lately," Enjolras argued lightly with a ghost of a frown upon his features.

"I have been an Algerian prisoner," Grantaire pointed out mildly, "of course I am going to appear a little more...inert, as some would say, then I did when I left Paris."

"You look as if you are recovering far too quickly," Enjolras replied after the briefest of pauses.

"I am not recovering. I am simply hiding my wounds."

* * *

><p><strong>I apologize if this chapter seemed rushed.<strong>


	4. IV

**All rights remain.**

**WARNING: Attempted self-harm but no character death.**

* * *

><p>"Jehan? Jehan open the door? Jehan."<p>

Grantaire was at the head of the group, knocking on their door with his toe for he had foolishly forgotten their key. Albeit, his knocking ceased to an end when he heard something stir from the other side of the door. The group heard something glass fall upon the floor and break followed by an attenuated sob.

"Jehan? Are you well? Please open the door."

But no answer had sounded and Grantaire was beginning to grow worried. He looked at Enjolras then to Courfeyrac and started knocking with his foot again, a little more harshly this time.

"Answer me, Jehan. Where are you?"

But no answer had sounded, only anguished sobs. Courfeyrac shoved his way through the crowd and started banging on the door with a fist, shouting through it as if his harangue would make a difference.

"Jean Prouvaire! Respond at once! Do you hear? Respond at once!"

Together, he and Grantaire threw their shoulders against the door; in compendium, once Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel stepped forward to shove their weight against the door, it broke off its hinges.

"Jehan! Answer the door when we plea. Is—"

But Grantaire broke off from his agitated rant and winced when he stepped on something sharp. But his eyes flickered right in front of him.

And lying with his head in his arms on the stool, Jehan Prouvaire sat with a shard of a broken wine glass in his left hand with his right wrist held out in front of him. A piece of paper lay beside his head with one word etched upon its surface over and over again.

Jehan was crying and apologizing, muttering to himself, talking to himself, but responding as if he was conversing with some unseen source. But he brought the shard closer to his wrist, still apologizing.

Grantaire was the first to recover from his temporary shock and lunge forward, flying at Jehan and heaving them both off their feet and on to the floor. Jehan began to struggle underneath the former soldier but his body was too enervated to fight properly. Grantaire and Jehan were wrestling for the shard of glass, some may call this ridiculous, but they were fighting very fluently.

Grantaire had little jabs and sparks of blood in the palms of his hand but he continued to grapple for it until Jehan was forced to let it go. Grantaire threw back his arm and threw it behind him, listening as it fell with a clatter. He seized Jehan by the collar of his shirt and brought him close, swirling his fingers in his friend's hair.

"No more! No more of this! We simply cannot handle it! No more of this irresolution! Jehan! Were you not thinking at all? T'was a terrible cry for help; insularity is never the answer nor wine nor drawing blood. Oh! Mon ami! I suffer now. I would be nothing but a mere shell without you and I refuse to leave your side; you are too young to be lost to me."

"I feel the war had never ended; I hear them all, I have killed fathers and brothers and sons of many as if they were inconsequential. I _am _irresolute and I have become inchoate, R."

Inchoate was written all over the paper; Courfeyrac seized the paper and threw it away, refusing to look at it again. Marius and Feuilly picked up the broken pieces of glass while Bousset and Joly used towels to make sure no glass remained. Tears were flowing from every pair of eyes in that room.

Grantaire held Jehan in his arms and close to his breast in hear of losing the man if he let go. Jehan did not struggle but he did not hold back his tears nor was he ashamed of them.

"You are not craven," Grantaire said in a hushed voice that mollified Jehan, "but that was a craven thing you tried to do. Oh! If we did not come at this moment who knows what would have occurred. I do not want to think about it but I cannot help but do so. I would have found you in a state that would only bring back memories of the war."

"The war is terrible," Jehan agreed quietly.

"Then why recreate memories of it, Jean?" Grantaire asked, running his tongue over his lips.

"I was not aiming to die, I just wanted a way to abate the pain as I failed to do to those I gunned down," Jehan said and swallowed.

Grantaire merely closed his eyes with his body still coiled around Jehan, protecting him from virtually nothing but everything else. Physical strain was one thing but the drunkard was in no condition to endure any emotional strain. He was much too damaged for that now. Courfeyrac ushered people out after a short pause and apologized for the lack of magnanimity.

But they left in understand, except Courfeyrac held on to Combeferre. Enjolras wanted to stay but he dismissed that idea and himself. Combeferre watched as their leader walked out. Combeferre turned to Courfeyrac and grasped his shoulder tightly.

Grantaire's breathing was slowing as was Jehan's. And eventually, they had fallen asleep deeply intertwined; their fingers were laced together in a symbolic action of support. Grantaire leaned against the back of the wall and Jehan was in his lap.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac moved into the bedroom and that was when Courfeyrac allowed himself to cry freely. Combeferre offered the best comfort he could provide. He was, indeed, the shoulder Courfeyrac used to cry upon.

Courfeyrac was lost for words and that was a rare occasion. He was usually very articulate and words tended to side with him, but now, they were gone. Combeferre said nothing but simple hums of sympathy but he was having difficulty trying to comfort Courfeyrac when he, himself, needed consultation.

It was a nightmare, one might say, to see their friend attempting to hurt themselves. He mulled over the situation and what possibly could have been in Jehan's head during it. But there was probably so much in his head that he could not pinpoint just one thing and t'was the problem Combeferre was faced with.

"I cannot imagine what those two have endured," Courfeyrac said through his falling tears.

"I do not think any of us can but them," Combeferre replied.

"Which makes it all the worse," said he.

Combeferre rubbed Courfeyrac's arm. "The war will be over, okay? And when the war is over, we will recover. When we recover, we can live again. We will go to college and we will get jobs and we have each other every damn step of the way. We will not lose each other because we are one another's anchors."

Combeferre was going on a pointless rant but it was lulling his friend into calmness.

"You are beautifully optimistic."

"I speak the truth, mon ami. Remember that."

Courfeyrac's crying had not alleviated for a good half hour to an hour. Combeferre's eyes were growing heavy and he longed to lay down; so he gently took Courfeyrac in his arms and lay back, bringing his friend to his side as he swirled his fingers in the dark locks of his friend's hair. Courfeyrac finally did go to sleep in Combeferre's arms.

Grantaire awoke with a deep growl in his throat. He was finally in a slumber and he needed nothing more than sleep; Jehan's limp hand fell from his and he disentangled himself from his sleeping friend and slid over to the door to answer it.

"Forgive my lack of formality in my appearance tonight but this evening has been a b—"

His sentence was cut off when arms engulfed him from either side and he was pressed against a firm chest, a warm chest, against a beating heart, against Enjolras's heart. And Grantaire broke off his diatribe to welcomed the man and his presence.

"I was worried," Enjolras said and pulled back, much to Grantaire's displeasure, "I was unsure if you had everything handled but I did not want to intrude. Could I stay and help with something?"

The leader looked slightly shy and hopeful but Grantaire was already dragging him inside his flat and back into his arms. He closed his eyes with a rumble deep within his chest.

"I need you right now," Grantaire murmured.

"Then I will be here."

That answer satiated the cynic enough for he closed his eyes in contentment. Perhaps it was Enjolras's stem of encouraging and supporting words that unlocked Grantaire's tears or perhaps it was being in the mere presence of Enjolras, the man whom Grantaire loved and adored, after months of not; but he had finally leaned against Enjolras and cried into the man's shoulder.

Enjolras's arm jerked for a moment as if he was hesitant but he carefully laced his fingers in Grantaire's hair and used his other hand to grasp the man's shoulder. Enjolras was doing his best to comfort him though he hadn't the slightest idea what to say. He was still stiff and empty on the inside, as well. He loved and venerated Jehan but he knew his friend needed him.

Then, to Grantaire's surprise, Enjolras started to hum. He was humming a beautiful tune that reminded him of the wide open grasslands or the African plains or the unsettled western lands. Enjolras sniffed and wiped his tear stained eyes but continued to hum, smiling that he was helping Grantaire feel better.

They just stood there for the longest time, letting Enjolras's humming take them somewhere else, whether it was back during the native times or to when nature ruled the lands and it ran wild, anywhere away from the surging war. But Grantaire suddenly felt calm and at peace. He was no longer tired but he was consoled, he was relaxed.

Jehan felt a little colder now that he lacked the other body but that was not what woke him up. T'was the tapping on the window. He groaned inwardly and forced himself to see what was outside. His flow of castigation was bubbling inside him. He opened the window:

"Bahorel! What are you doing outside my window? Why are you outside my window? Whatever possessed you to pull a stunt like this? We are two stories up and if you fall—"

"Then let's make sure I don't," Bahorel interrupted and pulled his slender body over the sill and through the window.

"What are you doing here?" Jehan repeated.

"Seeing to you."

"What does that mean?" Jehan asked, folding his arms across his chest a little defensively.

"You just tried to harm yourself, do not act sanctimonious, mon ami," Bahorel said intransigently.

The two silently made their way to the couch and sat there in a tense silence. The room was dark and filled with sleeping people but so not many words were exchanged after they met each other at the window.

Bahorel was growing weary for his eyes began to close and his head was dropped upon his breast. His breathing became slower and more even until something very soft brushed his lips and his eyes flew open. Jehan was, through the darkness, flushing very deeply but he kept his eyes glued to Bahorel the entire time.

No words were exchanged but Jehan had jumped when the gesture was returned. With that, he fidgeted until arms took him to a blissfully dark place; he allowed the rhythmic breathing take him to his dearly wanted slumber.

The night passed and the morning arrived, letting in the sunlight from the large windows of their fanciable flat. Grantaire was the first to open his eyes; he was not shocked or surprised to see himself entwined with Enjolras, only content.

He liked the way the sun would look dull compared to his pulchritudinous, angelic looks. His head was only bowed slightly as he slept. His golden hair was brighter than the sun, itself. But his entire self radiated with more light.

"You are a god, Apollo."

Enjolras roused at the sound of his name and smiled, though his did not open his eyes. Grantaire disentangled himself from his arms and stood up. What surprised him more was when he stood up and caught the sight of Bahorel and Jehan together.

"When did Bahorel come?" Enjolras asked, yawning.

"I haven't the slightest notion of how he got in here—he must have climbed through the window," Grantaire said then turned to face his Fine Statue. "Can I make you any coffee?"

"You'd be a saint," Enjolras said with another yawn.

Grantaire chortled.

Courfeyrac was the next one up. His rumpled hair still looked alluring but his eyes were red and puffy; he jumped slightly when he saw Enjolras but recovered and hopped up on the table top.

"Who else is here that I didn't know about?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Bahorel came through the window last night, I think on Jehan's request," Grantaire said and pointed to the sleeping pair.

"I am sore all over," came Combeferre's voice.

He was the next one to wake. His glasses sat pertly on his nose and his eyes looked rested but a little red but he wore a crooked smile and brightened when he saw Enjolras.

"When did you get here?" Combeferre asked, pointing to his flatmate.

"Last night," Enjolras said and nodded graciously when Grantaire presented himself with a mug of coffee. "Grantaire let me in."

"When did Bahorel get here?" Combeferre asked, then turning to the stirring man on the couch.

"I climbed through the window, Jehan caught me, asked me if I was out of my mind, kissed me, then fell asleep in my arms," Bahorel said all at once and sat shifted on the couch, "could I have a cup of coffee, R?"

"Certainly."

"Bahorel?" Jehan asked, stirring at last and sitting up.

His short hair was still smooth but his day clothes were mussed as all of theirs was. The two rose from their seats on the couch to join the party in the kitchen.

"Coffee?" Grantaire asked Jehan as he seated himself on the arm rest of a nearby seat.

"S'il vous plaît," Jehan said and smiled widely. "Merci beaucoup."

"Are you feeling better?" Grantaire asked, letting out a little puff of air as he noticed Jehan and Bahorel exchange swift glances.

"I am well."

"Good," Grantaire said and finally joined them, "then I want to talk about the previous evening. I do not care how much you detest hearing about it. I deserve to know what was going on."

This time, Jehan looked slightly uncomfortable. "I will unwell—ill, monsieur. I was haunted and I did not know what to do."

"You have the option of talking to us," Grantaire said stiffly, "we are here for you as you are for us, are you not?"

"I am."

"Then why have you failed to come to us?"

"Onerous."

"_Excusez-moi_?"

"Oui."

Grantaire squared his shoulders as the fingers, that were once drumming without a rhythm, were now straining to grip his mug. If it were not for Enjolras's calming hand upon the shoulder, Grantaire, most likely, would have flown at Jehan.

"Do not think of yourself like that," Grantaire chided and frowned deeply, "we care about you; we thrive on your presence and we cannot live without you. Perhaps this is not you but us. Do we not make it clear enough that we care about you, petit poéte?"

"It is not you," Jehan said with a little smile, "but let us not linger a moment longer on this depressing subject and let us plan our day."

Grantaire let go and looked down at his coffee with an avid gaze. Only when Enjolras invited him to explore the forest he always wanted to then Grantaire lift his head and eagerly nod. Combeferre and Courfeyrac fancied that idea and decided to count themselves in.

"Perhaps it would be best if we picked up our friends and all headed down as a joint," Enjolras said in compendium and brushed off his red jacket he wore so proudly.

And that was the first smile that broke out upon the faces of the men. They would ameliorate one another's lives, that was inevitable.


End file.
